Not from the stars
by Waterfowl
Summary: They were back to normal but something was amiss. Lee Adama gets to ponder his state of mind and a stirring attraction to a certain Petty Officer as of returning from Kobol. Set after 'Home' part II, season 2.


**A/N: The show had, apparently, woefully understated the tentatively stirring attraction between Lee Adama and Dee through the early premises of season two (before the 'prison-break' and after the successful completion of the tomb-raiding mission). **

**So this is a take on Lee's state mind and heart as of return from Kobol. Set after 'Home, part II', season 2. **

**Disclaimer: None of the characters, plot-points, inherent to the show, belong to me. The initial snippet of dialogue is borrowed from BSG ep. 2.04 'Resistance'.**

**Not from the stars***

Something was amiss. He would catch himself running an ongoing inventory of their current sitrep, as of returning from Kobol, through the more quiet CIC shifts or meetings at the Commander's, studiously avoiding to stay in the same room with Colonel Tigh without at least a Marine Guard to bear witness; in his office, pouring over weeks' worth of piled up paperwork (whoever was the acting CAG, while he was planetside, raiding mythical tombs, did a spectacularly lousy job); through an occasional triad game, infallibly faced with the task to confirm Starbuck's ornate narrative of their exploits on the surface of ancient Colonial foreworld to whoever missed the story previous ninety nine times around.

The fleet was back to normal. Reunited, that is, and on the move again. President Roslin was back in the office, his father was back in command, both leaders back into each other's good graces, or so it would seem, Starbuck was back, period. Yet he couldn't get rid of a nagging sensation not everything fit back together. Keeping in mind one end of the worlds, one coup d'état, one assault on the Commander, one of their own turning out a Cylon, one mutiny, one boarding by enemy forces and one prison break later anything was hardly ever to be what it used to, didn't quite manage to ease his unrest.

The reverse take at it by gradually eliminating things he didn't miss through the past weeks ultimately failed to work either. Though sorely longing for the pure, uninhibited closeness with his father, experienced on Kobol for what could very well have been proved the first time in his entire life, he was more than certain to be willing to trade the freezing contempt in Commander Adama's eyes from moments before the shooting for the brand of affectionate detachment, reestablished between them once the party made it back to Galactica. And he definitely was eager to choose disdain or disownment, or Gods damn court martial, over the memory of his father's bleeding form, sprawled on the CIC console. The echo of his screams would still wake him up time and again.

He didn't miss the churning resentment and frustration, once ordered to stand down by the President, upon having just sacrificed loyalty to his father in the name of what he believed went into the definition of loyalty to his officer's oath. He couldn't miss less the paralyzing fright of being faced toe-to-toe with a ruthless mound of metal about to shred him to pieces, or the disgusting aftershock of having one's home violated and never to be regarded completely safe then on. He was sure to never miss the heart-wrenching sorrow of the prospect to never see his father, Starbuck or Galactica again. But those were pieces, scrambled back together, after all. He had a hunch what he missed was not rediscovered on Kobol. If anything, he wished his father was more specific as to employing those instincts, back in the day.

* * *

He was quite aware hanging out in the hallway without any particular purpose was hardly becoming of the CAG, but he somehow just didn't have it in him to head straight for his rack upon the post-flight debriefing. Popping up into CIC to check up on the recently launched CAP proceedings would've been an okay prospect in and of itself were he not sure it was Colonel Tigh's watch, and with his father not in the picture he knew the two of them should rather not be trusted around each other unless absolutely necessary. He was rapidly running out of excuses to keep lurking further when the familiar light patter of feet approached.

- Morning, Dee. Fancy meeting you here.

- Morning, sir. I was just on my way.

The deliberate stride was halted to acknowledge his greeting with a mirthful look and a matching smile. If called on it he'd have insisted it was Galactica's busted heating system instrumental to the warmth spreading up his cheeks, not the blush, by any means. Not that he had any reasons to get flustered upon accidentally bumping into a colleague in the hallway. Not that he had any reasons to suspect an orchestrated accident it might have been, on his part. Not that he'd deduced it was that particular radiant affability, inherent to her gaze, that he was missing those days, not just the updates on his injured father's progress or latest fleet scuttlebutt.

He remembered being bathed in relief once it got apparent none of those complicit in smuggling the President out of confinement had been forced to own up to it. His father opted not to press for names, which agreed with him completely, yet he had still to thank her for taking all the risk. Exactly. He needed a plausible pretense to voice his gratitude and respect for courage and loyalty he would hardly have suspected in the young Petty Officer. That would be why he motioned to fall into step with her, uninvited, hastily fishing for words, wouldn't it? She was ahead of him, however, speaking up before he managed to conjure a coherent enough utterance to not sound tacky or too dramatic.

- I wanted to thank you, sir.

- For what?

- Billy said it was you to recognize the exact direction to Earth.

Oh. Right. Billy. Sure. It would seem all too easy, at times, to overlook the President's aide. Easier still to pretend the innocent-faced politician was no match for the oh so seasoned warrior like himself. Whichever master-plan the Gods had in stow for him, easy was definitely not factored in.

He was shaking his head in quiet objection, before the slight hitch in her voice shaped into misplaced admiration, making it to her eyes. Laura Roslin deemed herself the prophesized dying leader. No matter whether he believed it or not, her arguments appeared to hold water with at least one third of the fleet. His father voluntarily stepped down on the military coup and reunited humanity, bringing home the President and the actual location of the Thirteenth Tribe. Kara endeavored an insane stint of fetching the Arrow of Apollo from nuked Caprica to activate whatever that hologram was within the Tomb of Athena. Those were the champions of the Kobol mission to be credited properly. He was but tagging along for the ride, pulling a gun at his superior officer, abandoning his wounded father, breaking his parole, letting the toaster to have shot his Old Man go unscathed.

- I didn't do much, Dee. Just happened to identify a nebula. No big deal.

- That's all the deal it takes. We all owe you.

Something about the luminous conviction, her stare swathed him in, took him aback. He'd got so used to the frustration of being recurrently assessed by what he was _supposed_ to do, as 'Captain Apollo', CAG or as his father's son, it nearly rang foreign to be appraised for what he actually _did_. No surprise it instantly struck him to have missed the fulfillment that issued for a long while.

- Let me call you on that one, when we make it to Earth.

He hadn't just resorted to his cheesiest brand of high school smirk in place of gratitude, had he? The tending on the side of shy taunting glimmer, she sported in reply, suggested he, probably, had. Thank Gods, she graced him with enough mercy to drop the subject as it was, for the time being, prodding to recount what he highlighted most from the trip planetside, instead. The absorbing eagerness, with which his record of rain, thick woods, the unfathomable mechanics of that projection within the Tomb and more rain was perceived, brought him to wonder if, maybe, it might have made sense to take her off Galactica to join their rogue team. The mental image of a Centurion ambush gone horribly wrong implied it might have not.

That was the one thing he certainly missed least of all – the chrome-jobs on their heels, on top of them, swarming all over the place. For the world of him he wouldn't miss the sight of Elosha's body, hurriedly covered with moth and wet leaves in the shallow grave, too. It would seem he was rather inclined to miss the lush, vivacious greenery of the abandoned planet, for Galactica definitely lacked in color what it made up in comfort, in comparison. The last quarter of an hour or so, however, were positively driving him to reconsider. As far as green was concerned, that is. It occurred to him, there was, in fact, the one gleaming shade, found on Galactica, Kobol all but paled in par with.

His dumbfounded look earned him another amused smile, as he blinked at the enlisted personnel hatch-door in complete bewilderment. It would appear to have totally slipped the premises of his conscious grasp that they managed to make it all the way to her quarters. If anything, there was no easy route to scrap his decorum back into pretending to be in possession an appropriately justified reason to have walked her that far.

- I'm on duty in twenty minutes, sir. – There was nothing dismissive, nor demanding in the tranquil gaze, holding his own for a brief while. So much so he was acutely aware to have missed the soothing comfort of his all too frequently tangled motives going unquestioned.

- Guess, I'll see you later, then, at the CIC. – He had to all but halt his hand on the way to raking his hair, while waging a losing battle with the crooked grin, tugging at his lips.

- That's right, sir.

She'd been into the hatchway for some moments already, while he was still thoroughly enthralled in figuring out since when it would appear so annoying for a Colonial officer to be referred to as 'sir' by a junior enlisted. Maybe he should let her know, sometime, that was something he wouldn't miss?

* * *

*Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck,

And yet methinks I have astronomy,

But not to tell of good or evil luck,

Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;

Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,

Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,

Or say with princes if it shall go well

By oft predict that I in heaven find:

But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,

And, constant stars, in them I read such art

As truth and beauty shall together thrive

If from thy self to store thou wouldst convert:

Or else of thee this I prognosticate,

Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.

(W. Shakespeare, Sonnet XIV)


End file.
